The Passenger Seat He Saved for His Mistress

“Can't you just be the bigger person here?”

Marion bowed her head at exactly the right moment, tears falling one by one, splashing onto the floor.

“Victor, maybe I really should go. I don't want your wife to hate me even more……”

Victor grabbed her wrist. For the first time, right in front of me, he used a tone that left no room for argument.

“You're not going anywhere.”

“She's the one who needs to cool off.”

In that moment, my heart sank all the way down.

I walked into the bedroom, ready to pack my things and leave the place that was suffocating me.

The second I opened the door, I froze.

There on my vanity sat Marion's lipstick and perfume, brazenly claiming territory that was mine.

What stung more was the nightstand drawer, left half open.

Inside lay a crumpled movie ticket stub.

The date: the twentieth of last month.

My birthday.

That night, Victor had said he had an important client to entertain.

He'd left me alone at the restaurant I'd reserved, waiting from seven until midnight.

The candles burned down, the cake went cold, and he never came.

Now I finally understood.

His important client was at the movies, spending my birthday with another woman.

I clenched that stub tight in my palm, the sharp edges of the paper biting into my skin.

From the living room came Marion's timid voice.

“Victor, do you think your wife is going to break up with you?”

Victor's answer carried clearly, weighed with a cruel certainty.

“She can't live without me. She'll throw a fit for a couple of days, and she'll get over it soon enough.”

I stood behind the door, my back against the cold wall, and suddenly I laughed.

I laughed and laughed, and then the tears came.

Victor, you're far too sure of yourself.

The next day, I forced myself up to meet an important client.

Something twisted in my stomach like a hand wringing it, the pain so bad my fingertips trembled.

The client was a thoughtful middle-aged woman.

Seeing how pale I was, she insisted the moment the meeting ended that her driver take me to the hospital.

Sitting in the car on the way there, I called Victor without quite knowing why.

Maybe a last sliver of hope still lingered in me.

He picked up fast, but his voice was cold as ice.

“What now? Still making a scene?”

“I'm on my way to the hospital. Acute stomach cramps.”

My voice came out thin.

There were a few seconds of silence on the other end before he said, grudgingly,

“Send me the address. I'll come right over.”

I sat in the emergency room for half an hour. He didn't come.

But Marion had posted something new.

A photo of her own hand with an IV line in it, captioned:

“Some people act tough but they're soft on the inside. The second they hear you're not feeling well, they drop everything and rush over.”

In the corner of the photo, half of a men's watch peeked into frame.

That watch. The one I'd saved three months of salary for, the anniversary gift I'd given him.

When the nurse came to ask me for payment, I realized in my panic I'd left my bag in the client's car.

So I had no choice but to grit my teeth and call Victor again.

This time, Marion answered.

Her voice was frail, with a deliberate edge of showing off.

“Edith, Victor's out buying me some porridge right now. Did you need something?”

She ground my dignity under her heel and crushed it to dust.

“Tell him to come to the hospital. I don't have any money to pay the bill.”

Marion drew a soft little breath, and the next second a pained moan came through the phone.

“Oh, Victor, my chest hurts so much……it really hurts……”

Victor snatched the phone away at once, his voice tight with held-back anger.